Friendship Through Infertility (Guest Post)
July 26, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics No Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

Today, we are sharing an excerpt of a guest post Kindred Mom founder Emily Allen is sharing over on Lauren Bourne’s “I am Fruitful” blog. Please visit there to read the complete post! This essay is about Emily’s friendship with Sarah Allard who shared an essay earlier this week titled, “Invisible Mothers”.

 

(photo by Latisha Hale)

We are in her kitchen, washing dishes between conversations with the various women who have dropped by for an evening of jewelry-making and friendship-forging. For years, we have been bringing women together for fellowship and camaraderie, playing to both of our strengths—her as a hostess, me as a deeper-conversations sort. She nervously tells me she thinks she might be pregnant. She hasn’t tested yet, but she has a hunch this could be the month. My heart swells with excitement for her. They’ve been trying for a while, but haven’t stressed about it. Both are eager to welcome a baby.

A few days later she tells me.

“Not this month,” she sighs. I’m sorry, I say, and I mean it. She’d be the best mom.

A few weeks later, it is me that has pink lines for the fourth time. I’m a little timid about telling her because it is uncomfortable when mom-with-multiple-other-children tells friend-who-is-still-waiting-for-one that we will be having our fourth baby in March. Still, she smiles and hugs me, and cheers me all through the pregnancy.

Still no pink lines for her.

For months, we pray and cry, and I fumble my way through trying to support her, always feeling like I come up short because I can’t fix the situation. I can’t do much except listen and pray and continue tenderly walk through the waiting along with her.

I give birth and try to figure out the chaos of four kids in my house. Two boys and two girls. It’s all so perfect, everyone says. Surely we’re done. I think we are for a stretch of months until I hear God asking me to surrender my plans. I will, I say to Him. I will receive what You give, Lord, even if that means another pregnancy, and another round of that humbling place of giving my body to the very challenging task of childbirth. I pray and try to encourage my sweet friend who is still waiting and still hoping with the best attitude she can muster.

Still no pink lines for her.

Over a year goes by when a call comes, and she says, “I’m pregnant!”

I cry with joy and the next week I make a similar call back to her and say, “I’m pregnant too!”

She is having a baby! My number five is on the way. We’re excited for each other, and it all feels so wonderful to take this journey together since we’ll be due in the same month.

She’s 11 weeks and eager to see her baby on ultrasound at her OB appointment. I’m a week behind her and feeling the nausea and exhaustion of the first trimester. I’m waiting for her call to gush about the little bean-baby she is growing, except when she calls, she is suddenly solemn.

“There is no heartbeat.”

Read the rest of this essay on I am Fruitful…

Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and podcast and is passionate about helping moms flourish in motherhood. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at lightandloveliness.com. She invites you to connect with the Kindred Mom community on Instagram or Facebook.


Invisible Mothers
July 24, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics 2 Comments

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

 

The minute you see two pink lines on a pregnancy test after waiting for those lines for years, you start dreaming and planning.

Our baby was due in February, and I imagined having an adorable baby bump in our Christmas photos that year. I turned baby names over in my mind, dreaming about whether our baby was going to be a boy or a girl. I cut out all lunch meat, upped my protein intake, and put the baby center app on my phone. At each change in my body–nausea, bloat, fatigue–I was thankful for signs of a growing life inside my womb. We saw our baby’s heartbeat at eight weeks, and knowing the rate of miscarriage was low beyond this point, we shared our news with friends and family. There had been so much emotion and hope building up to this moment…to this baby. We were convinced this baby was the answered prayer for a child of our own, after year exactly three years of unexplained infertility. All of these details made our miscarriage and the year that followed it one of the most painful experiences of my life.

At the beginning of eleven weeks I spotted a tiny bit. It had me concerned, but I had no other signs of miscarriage and it was such a small streak of blood. I tried to push any concern out of my mind. A couple of days later, we walked into the ultrasound expecting to see our growing baby to put our minds at ease. The stillness of the image made my heart drop into my stomach. My husband and I didn’t say a word, but we looked at each other with a knowing glance. I can still feel my throat tightening, holding back tears, trying to process the loss. I remember the look of shock on my husband’s face. He had been trying to encourage me with complete confidence that our baby was fine.

It was supposed to be a routine and reassuring ultrasound, but instead we found out we had lost our baby.

In an instant, all the hopes and dreams that had been growing within me for eleven weeks shattered. I would never get to see my baby’s face this side of heaven. There was nothing I could do to make a flicker of a heartbeat appear inside the fetus on the ultrasound.

One moment I was a mother with a womb full of life, and the next moment I became  an invisible mother.

The technician left the room to consult with the lead doctor to confirm what we already knew. My husband prayed over me and I lay on the table, numb to the pain. The doctor came in and mumbled something about being sorry for our loss, that the miscarriage was not my fault, and that I needed to talk to my OB for next steps. It was excruciating to sit in the OB’s office, surrounded by pregnant bellies and babies, and because we didn’t have an appointment, the wait seemed like forever.

The days that followed were a horrible nightmare. I had to wait several days for my scheduled D&C procedure and there was something very eerie knowing I had a dead child inside my womb. One day, I was experiencing pregnancy symptoms and the next day I could see my stomach had shrunk, the bloat had gone away and so had the nausea. These outward reminders were nothing compared to the changes happening inside my heart and mind. I went from being completely elated with the excitement of new life, to feeling utterly heartbroken. One moment, an expectant mother, the next moment, an invisible mother.

There are invisible mothers everywhere. Many times, they are not recognized as mothers because they don’t have a baby in arms, but these women hoped, loved, and longed for the babies they nourished in their wombs, no matter how many weeks or months that precious baby grew there. These brave, beautiful mothers have experienced miscarriage, but they will forever remember the baby they never got to meet.

Because of my experience, I see invisible mothers all around me. I know the pain they feel that too often remains unseen by others. I know what it’s like to pack away the maternity clothes I never grew into. I’ve strained to put on a happy face when I heard of yet another friend’s pregnancy announcement. I’ve received the bill in the mail from the ultrasound where I saw my dead baby. I’ve had the baby center app remind me of how big my baby would have been this week. I’ve watched friends have babies around my due date and wondered what could have been. I’ve experienced the heaviness of Mother’s Day, not knowing my place in the midst of mothers who still have their babies. I’ve had cycle after cycle come and the blood remind me of the baby I’ve lost. I have been at a loss for how to express the excruciating heartache I experienced at that time, and I struggled with the reality that most people never asked how I was doing or acknowledged the baby I lost.

Invisible mother, I see you. I honor the baby you lost; the one you will never forget. I honor the time you spent loving that baby, the effort spent nurturing your body, and the dream of welcoming that child into your family. Invisible mother, I know your heart will never be the same and there will always be a piece of it in heaven. I honor the baby that has forever changed you, the one that made you a mother.

Sarah Allard is thankful to be experiencing the joy of motherhood after journeying through years of infertility. She is married to her highschool sweetheart and together they are raising their two children in Seattle. Sarah is passionate about hospitality, encouraging other mamas, and slowing down to appreciate God’s daily grace. She is a fair weather blogger at www.thelittledove.com and is often on Instagram.


My Kids are Jerks
July 19, 2017 In Faith & Encouragement Home & Family No Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

Sometimes my kids are jerks.

There. I said it.

I’m certainly not the first to say it out loud, but as a mom who is always trying to convince myself of my okay-ness, it’s the first time I’ve ever come out and said it to anybody, really. I’m not sure if it bothers my pride more that I called them jerks, or that sometimes it’s true.

I mean, they’re also wonderful. They’re full of curiosity, determination, light, and humor. They bring joy to my life and will be my legacy when I’m gone…but then there are those times when they’re full of sass and spite and defiance. You know. Jerks.

My oldest (six) gets argumentative…often. The other day, I corrected her for it (again). “Darling, when I give you direction, you keep coming back with disrespect and arguments that imply you know what’s best and Mama doesn’t know what she’s talking about. That has to stop.”  

She responded, “No I don’t. You just think that.” Sigh…

The five-year-old was messing with the baby, making her holler. I called out from my place in the kitchen, “Katherine, I’m not sure what you’re doing, but I’m pretty sure your sister doesn’t like it.” Her reply?

“I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

My sweet toddler was cuddling with his baby sister while she nursed in my lap. He adores her and dotes on her in a way that I’ve never seen in a two-year-old boy. Suddenly, I felt him tense up and the baby shrieked. I looked down and he was biting her pointer finger. He broke skin.

Sometimes they’re jerks and I just want to yell at them. Sometimes I’m the jerk and I do.

If I’m the one being a jerk and I lose it on my littles, it’s easy enough–though I prefer not to need to–I go through the drill all the time when they wrong each other.

I’m sorry for…

It was wrong because…

In the future I will…

Will you forgive me?

But what happens when my kids are the jerks and I hate everything and it’s all annoying and just too much? 

I’m learning that my irritation is (counterintuitively) a call to reconnect, and I’m finding a few small, doable ways to do it.

First, I reconnect to God. This is, for me, usually a simple, “Jesus! I need HELP!” Then, I look around quickly and find a few things to thank Him for. Currently, I’m looking at an empty coffee cup. There. I was able to finish a cup of instant coffee. I’m thankful for coffee and the ability to make it quickly and the chance to finish it today. It doesn’t have to be a big thing, just something I’m honestly grateful for.

Next, I reconnect with myself. What physical needs of my own am I neglecting? Am I hungry? Dehydrated? Did I take my medication? Do I need something right now? Do I have to pee? (Am I the only one who gets snippy when I have a full bladder?)

Then, I reconnect with my babies. You know, the ones who were jerks a minute ago. I offer a gentle touch and some eye contact, maybe some gentle words. Since I’ve connected with my God and myself, sometimes this turns into a long, heart-warming moment where I end up on the floor, reading aloud with the four children piled around me like puppies. More frequently, they flit on to the next thing, whatever it is.

Clearly, this doesn’t solve every parenting issue. Little people are complex—they’re made in the image of God, but they’re also born sinners. I’m supposed to help them navigate to adulthood, even though I face this same tension. As complicated as motherhood can be, I haven’t found a situation yet where connection has made anything worse. When we’re just being prickly and irritable, sometimes that connection is all it takes.

Sometimes my kids are jerks, but I have learned by experience that reconnecting helps us all find our way to a little more harmony.. (Until tomorrow, at least…I hope.)

 Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect Jesus lover, wife, and mama to four babies six and down. When she isn’t buried in children or hiding from them, she enjoys reading, photography, and sharing stories on her blog, where she’d love to connect with you! You can also find her on Facebook or Instagram… or perhaps hiding in her bathroom with some coffee. 


I am a Real Mom
July 17, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Tender Topics 1 Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

I felt like an impostor.

No one had ever called me “mom” before, and I had no swollen belly, no stretch marks, and no attempts at breastfeeding to prove that I was a new mom. But the hospital attendant insisted that I sit in the wheelchair with this stranger-baby while he pushed the two of us through the hospital corridors from maternity ward to exit. “Hospital policy, ma’am,” he said. “Moms and babies ride in the chair.” My husband jogged ahead to retrieve our car, awkwardly balancing the new car seat in one arm and a diaper bag full of diapers and formula in the other. This new practice of carrying baby gear must have felt as strange to him as my effortless trip through the halls of the hospital.

I cried the whole way. Maybe the orderly thought it was some kind of post-partum hormonal bout of tears. Maybe he thought it was new-mom exhaustion or fear of taking care of a baby for the first time. It was neither. It was guilt. I felt like I had stolen someone else’s child and had requisitioned the title of “mother” without earning it.

I sat in the back seat of our car next to the baby because I didn’t know what else to do. After fiddling with the car seat a bit, I forced my restless fingers to be still. I’d spent five years trying to have a baby, and suddenly I was riding in the backseat of a car with a child someone else had carried and given birth to. I wasn’t sure how to move from negative pregnancy tests and temperature charts to feeding schedules and swaddling techniques. My preparation had consisted of mountains of paperwork, not newborn care classes. I had never had a baby bump, but now I had a baby.

As the weeks and months spun out from that first awkward day, I kept trying on the name “Mommy” when addressing this baby who was suddenly my son. It felt strange to my lips, a foreign word that rolled around oddly in my mouth and sounded so impossible to me that I could only whisper it at first. The things that most mothers talk about—the sleeplessness, the exhaustion, the need for adult conversation—I felt that I couldn’t express those things aloud to anyone. I had sought out adoption after years of infertility. I didn’t think I had earned the right to complain, so I didn’t. I gritted my teeth and tried to be thankful for the exhaustion that came with this label of mother I had so long coveted. I was thankful for it, but I was also exhausted. Even when my son grew and had birthdays, I feared that other people didn’t see me fully as his mother. More like a babysitter, maybe, but not a mother. It was a long time before I realized it didn’t matter what others thought, and the only person really struggling to believe I was really a mother was me.

It was a night when my three-year-old son vomited all night long, and I laid next to him in his twin sized bed, holding a trashcan and patting his back while the contents of his stomach emptied over and over again. He clung to me fearfully, whispering that he was afraid he would never feel good again. While he slept, I listened to his heartbeat as his chest rose and fell rhythmically with his breathing, his little body curled against mine.

“This is motherhood,” I whispered to myself, every molecule of my being acutely focused on my son. This unfettered loving, this hyper-focused caring, this generous comforting, this cleaning up of vomit, this watchful sleeplessness, this worry in the pit of my stomach even though I know it’s just a stomach bug. This is motherhood.  Of all the places in the world I could be right now, I would choose this cramped corner of this tiny bed with this feverish little boy vomiting on me. Over and over, I would choose this.  

I am a mother because I was entrusted with this child.

The next day, while I washed sheets and disinfected bathrooms, I kept a close eye on my son. Motherhood didn’t start in my body, but somehow it was innately there in me. As I reflected over that long night, I was washed in the relief of knowing I had nothing to prove to anyone, especially to myself. It didn’t matter how my son came to be my son. He is my son, and I am his mother. I found my mothering self in the nooks and crannies of my days with an infant, a toddler, a preschooler, an elementary student. In the changing of diapers, in the cleaning of messes, in packing lunches and washing clothes, in the nourishing with food and prayer and stories and songs—I found the mother that God had called and equipped me to be. She was there all along. And she loved her son fiercely. Her son.

**

Nearly four years after that long night of recognition, we added another son to our family. This time, I was ready for the wheelchair ride. I rejected the feeling of impostor syndrome, and I knew that in time I would find the confidence to mother the new baby in my arms. No, my children didn’t come to me the regular way babies come to a mother. But I watch them play, I witness their growth, and I see tiny glimmers of the men they’ll one day be. I love, correct, teach, feed, care, comfort, and enjoy these kids of mine. I find a little joy in the normal feelings of inadequacy because inadequacy isn’t the same thing as impostor. Feeling inadequate is the most normal thread of mothering in the world.  

Motherhood is sanctifying work, but it is a beautiful gift. And in the everyday, lovely, gritty, exhausting, wonderful work of mothering, I have learned to embrace the realness of my family.  

I am a real mom.

 Glenna Marshall is a pastor’s wife, adoptive mom, infertility veteran, musician, and writer. She writes to connect the difficult and challenging circumstances in life to the truths found in the Word of God. Glenna enjoys music, coffee, and reading when she’s not writing and parenting. 

Find her on social media in the following places: her blog Treasuring the Word in Every Season, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

 

 

 

 


Family Fun Night
July 14, 2017 In Childhood Home & Family 1 Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

 

“What day is it Mummy?” my almost four-year old asks, while she rubs her still sleepy eyes and then stretches to her full height in her jammies.

“It’s Friday,” I state quietly, one eyebrow raised waiting for the reaction I know is coming.

“Yay!” She shouts and leaps up. The excitement builds as she rehearses with me what Friday means to her and to our family.

“Are we gonna have chicken and french fries?” She locks eyes, earnestly awaiting my answer.

“Yes we are! We always do,” I reply as I reach for her clothes.

In her excitement, she dances around and I can’t dress her until her inner wiggle-worm settles down.

The back and forth continues: 

“Are we gonna watch a movie?!”

“Yep!”

“And have dessert?!”

“Yep!”  

She settles into my lap, wrapping her arms around me, “It’s family fun night,” She says with glee.

“That’s right, it’s family fun night,” I reply with a bit of my own glee.  

What it means to be a family is always changing, because we are a group of people with ever-evolving needs, morphing alongside one another. We are still new at this whole thing. Two little kids in two years—after only a few years of marriage—means the dust is still settling on our newly minted family unit. Though, in some ways it feels like we have all been a part of each other forever, we’re still establishing our identity together.

At some point in the last year or so, we have come to understand that we get to decide who we are and why it matters. Day to day, my husband and I can easily get distracted by everything that is outside of us. These outside influences are trying to shape our family and use up our resources. Some things we love and gladly give ourselves to. Somewhere along the journey, we began to realize that we need to pull back from all of that to realign our family, to unify us.

Enter: Family Fun Night. This was a tradition held sacred in my own family of origin, and it was easy for me to adopt the practice. We get one of our favorite take out dinners from an amazing Lebanese chicken shop and choose a favorite movie. There are sticky fingers and salty french fries, with the garlic dipping-sauce we all love. The kids sit at their little table, my son’s busy legs bumping against my daughter’s as they both settle in. My husband and I sit in the arm chairs behind the kids. They tune into the movie, and my husband and I get to tune into each other. We talk quietly behind the noise of the TV, reconnecting after a week of busy doing. We get back to being. Listening to him sharing his thoughts and his plans, debriefing with him about my daily rush with the kids. Our voices are often rushed and strained at first but, as we unburden ourselves, we slow down and find restoration together.  We are still learning how to do it, and some weeks are more cohesive and restorative than others. Like a rest stop on a long road trip, we stretch our legs, and deal with our needs, and shake off some of that tired feeling that relentless movement leaves us with. We pull off the highway each week to be together because we love being together, and sometimes we have to stop moving in order to remember that.

Sometimes when the plates are empty and the bellies are full, I sit with my first born baby on my lap, her warm little girl body pressing into me, her hands gripping mine. It’s easy to transport myself back to that first year when she made me a mother. Looking back, we have both grown so much. Sometimes my little boy will repeat a line from the movie that he finds funny, making all of us laugh at his adorable attempt to repeat it. He has grown too, and his imitations remind me he still is growing. This weekly ritual gives us time to look back and see all that God has done in growing all of us, and to celebrate that we are still going, still growing and still loving this good gift of family that He has given us.

Looking across the room on a Friday night my heart is full to bursting with the blessing of family and the gift of love.

Shannon Anderson lives with her husband, who is the love of her life, and their two kids, in Sydney Australia. They are currently at Bible College while they are preparing for full time cross-cultural ministry in a remote Aboriginal Community. But, in the meantime Shannon is hitting up as many amazing Sydney coffee shops as possible and is kid wrangling full time and writing in the margins of life with a young family. You can catch her on Instagram occasionally.

 


Less is More: Capsule Wardrobes for Kids
July 12, 2017 In Childhood Home & Family No Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

 

I climb the stairs with my warm bundle of clothing heaping in the basket. I inhale the soft clean scent and think to myself: this is the only time laundry is so delightful—warm and fresh. At the top of the stairs, my moment of downy-fresh bliss is interrupted by twins fighting over a toy, and my baby squawking for a fresh diaper. The clock strikes “lunch time,” and in an instant, I’m waiting for my fairy godmother to float down, wand waving, to sort it all out…complete with a pretty new dress for me.

Record scratch, reality check.

There is no fairy godmother, there is only me—Regular Mother and I am being called to duty. I toss the beautiful fresh laundry in a heap on the couch. I’ll get to that later. Only I never do. Instead, the three other loads I later bring up from the basement get piled up on top and a 3 foot mountain of clothing forms atop my sofa. There is no rescue, and no reprieve.

Confrontations over toys is not the only thing that causes the laundry to pile up. I cannot find a place to put all of the clothes once they are clean and folded. Storage is a premium when there is no hall closet, no linen cabinet, and no coat closet. My three children share the same small room (twin 4yr olds, and a 1 year old), with a tiny closet and one modest dresser. Teetering stacks of clothing on top of the dresser or small closet shelves stress me out because it looks dumpy, unorganized and overflowing. I yearn for the peacefulness that comes with tidiness.  

I’ve had to be intentional about our space considerations, dusting off my mama-ingenuity skills and figure out how to pare down anything my family does not absolutely need. More importantly, I have learned that chasing peacefulness within my home is imperative to me.  How can I make it easier on myself and find freedom from oversized laundry piles?

It hit me like a ton of Pinterest worthy bricks…capsule wardrobes for my kids.


A capsule wardrobe is a compact-yet-carefully-curated batch of essential clothing pieces, in coordinating colors that mix and match and don’t go out of fashion easily.  

It sounded like a pretty great way to reduce the amount of laundry I had been doing each week, and like it might solve my storage problems, simplifying my laundry-life in one fell swoop. I was excited to find a possible solution, but I had doubts as well.

How is this going to work?
What if I pare down too far and there is nothing for the kids to wear?
What if we get bored with the same clothes everyday?

I decided I might try making my own capsule wardrobe first, and started by getting rid of anything that didn’t fit me or I didn’t like. Some things were easy to part with because they were already stashed in the back of the closet, and were rarely worn. Others were more challenging, like the dress from my days before children that I really liked but was now too tight through the hips.  The sentiment of those days were wrapped up in a garment that I used to love but now felt self-conscious wearing. I decided it had to go. All of the items that didn’t hit the mark for my current needs, shape, and style had to go.

The fewer items there were, the lighter I felt.  Through that process of paring down, I have found peace.  I love knowing that everything I have in my closet is something I enjoy wearing and suits me. My clothes no longer overwhelm the modest closet space I share with my husband which makes me feel light and a little bit carefree, and my closet is now stocked with exactly what I need.  I have been surprised at how few clothing items I actually need.

When I honestly look at our practice of changing clothes, I realize that everyone in the family wears different clothing items multiple times per week. We go days on end without washing jeans, which sounds crunchy but it does make them last longer, and lightens the laundry load.

Building on the success of my personal capsule wardrobe, I focused on taming the laundry fiasco in the kids’ room. I started sketching out a plan for each child, figuring out the minimum reasonable number of items I might need for each one.  The weather was getting warmer, we would be outside more often.  I envisioned activities that would occur in the cool mountains and also in the heat of an urban summer, which meant they would need both long pants and shorts–long sleeves and short. Goodwill bag in hand, I looked through every clothing item and out went everything that was too small, too tattered, or not useful. The cute down vests the boys wore when they were 1, would be too small for my daughter when this winter rolls around–into the bag.

A simple three drawer chest dresser now houses 99% of all of the children’s clothing, even though it used to be quite inadequate for the previous volume of laundry. Everything has a place and the children only have clothes in their drawer that are their size and appropriate for the season.

Creating capsule wardrobes for my children has brought with it the added bonus of setting my children up for autonomy in choosing their own clothes. I know that everything in the boys’ drawer fits them well and since the the clothing colors are mostly neutral each piece can easily match any other piece. They can pick out their own clothes and look put together all by themselves. Mom Win!

These family-wide capsule wardrobes have been a harbinger of peace for me. If you have been buried under a mountain of laundry, a capsule wardrobe could be helpful in simplifying operations for your family. In my experience with this whole clothing endeavor, less is definitely more.

Creating a Capsule Wardrobe for Children

 

If you are interested in creating a capsule wardrobe for your kids, here are some helpful tips and things to consider as you get started.

Evaluate the needs of the season.

I create two wardrobes for my kids per year: one for spring/summer, the other for fall/winter.  Here are a few questions I ask myself:

Will they need long sleeves, short or a mix of both?
Will they need long pants, shorts or a mix of both?
What activities do you plan to engage in as a family? Camping trips, beach trips, pools/splash pads, parks?

Consider how kids will grow throughout the season. I try to buy clothes at the beginning of the season that are intentionally big because I know they will grow into them as the season progresses.

Buy clothes that mix and match well. Blue jeans and khaki pants (short and long) go with all t-shirts for both boys and girls. I try to stay away from outfit sets because they usually only look good as a set and not mixed. Err on the side of neutrals or clothes/shoes with no recognizable characters slathered all over. Give your kid a timeless look that is fashionable no matter what.

Buy the best quality you can afford. I tend not to care so much about the brand name of my children’s clothing because they are going to Wear.This.Stuff.Out. I am okay with that, but when I consider that these clothes are meant to last them through an entire season or longer, I want to buy the best made clothing I can afford. At the end of the season…I assess the clothes. If they are in good repair and still fit, I hang onto them for the next season, next year or next sibling. If they are too small but still in good shape, I donate. If they look pretty worn or shabby I will toss them in the garbage or make rags out of them.

Consider laundry habits. How often do you wash laundry now in your household? Are you comfortable with this frequency or would you like to do less? Design your capsule wardrobes around how often you would like to be doing laundry. After creating a capsule wardrobe for my kids, I am able to do one load of kid-laundry per week, which may not be possible for all families, but has been a life-saver for me.   

Here is an example of the capsule wardrobes I made for my children for Spring/Summer 2017:

My sons each have:

Bottoms:
1 pair of dark wash jeans
1 pair of light wash jeans
1 pair of jean shorts
1 pair of cotton elastic band shorts
1 pair of swim trunks

Tops:
4 short sleeve t-shirts
2 heavy-weight long sleeved shirts
2 light-weight long sleeved shirts

Other Essentials:
3 sets of pajamas
8 pairs of underwear
8 pairs of socks (approximate…there is a collective sock bin)
1 zip-up hoodie

My 1 year old Daughter has:
Bottoms:
1 pair of jeans
1 pair of khaki pants
2 skirts
2 pairs of shorts
3 pairs of cotton pants

Tops:
1 long-sleeved onesie
9 short-sleeved onesies

Other Essentials:
4 pairs of pajamas
1 dress
4 zip-up hoodies
6 pairs of socks

Every family and every child is different. A capsule wardrobe will look quite different based on the age, gender, and activities of each child. My daughter is 1 and her wardrobe contains several more tops and bottoms than her brothers, that is because she soils her clothes faster than they do. Diaper blow-outs, messy table habits, etc. The bottom line is that a capsule wardrobe should reflect the unique needs of the person it is created for. There is not a prescribed “right way” to curate a capsule wardrobe, it is more a practice of being mindful of real clothing needs and eliminating anything that falls outside of that.

 Jennifer Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a baby girl).  She is a teacher, musician, and currently a stay-at-home mom.  She loves fueling the imaginations of her children with creativity, songs, all things science, good food and lots of play indoors and out.  She blogs at Pepper Sprout Home and you can also find her on Instagram. 


Remembering My Kids are Different
July 10, 2017 In Childhood Home & Family 1 Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

The other day, my daughter and I left her little sister at grandma’s house and drove to the dentist together. My nearly-five-year-old exclaimed from the backseat, “Mom! This is the best day! I love the dentist and I love spending quality time with you! We’re never in the car, just the two of us!”

I laughed, partly at the use of exclamation points and partly because my child incorporates words like “quality time” into our daily conversations.

A couple years ago, this same daughter and I were in the midst of the classic “threenager” drama. I remember sitting on our upstairs landing one day after yet another power struggle—in tears—wondering why on earth I had been chosen to be the mother of this strong, opinionated, passionate girl. I felt incompetent; like such a failure.

Suddenly, a book flashed through my mind. When we were first married, a friend lent us The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. I knew he had written one about children and that evening I picked up a copy. As I read about how our children respond to love and discipline, I saw how I could improve our family culture.

After reading the descriptors, it was clear that my daughter is a classic “physical touch” kid. When she’s frustrated or upset, she stamps her feet and throws toys. When she feels unsafe or tired, she snuggles in and needs to be held. When she’s content and wants to talk about her day, she does it sitting in my lap. When she snuggles, every single part of her body has to touch my body.

This is not at all how I’m programed. My love language is “quality time,” in which I don’t need the close proximity that my daughter loves. With this insight, I set about to rewrite our interactions. I looked for small, natural ways to incorporate her need for physical touch before she became desperate.

Of course, nothing is magical and we still experience our share of misunderstandings and power struggles, but when I can start our day with a snuggle and a book rather than rushing around, it sets the tone for a better morning. When we can spend a little time before the craziness of dinner together on the couch, the witching hour seems to diminish. When we’re out and about, I give her hand a squeeze or make sure we get some physical contact at the playground. 

These small moments and opportunities help. They remind me that we are all different. Even though physical touch can feel so draining to me, I have learned that a small gesture makes a huge different for my daughter’s wellbeing and sense of safety. 

It’s funny that, at nearly five years into this mothering journey, I’m still remembering that I’m raising individuals. These girls are not “mini-me’s.” Each is their own unique person with their own way of relating to the world. My job isn’t to make them more like me; it’s to learn how to nurture their personalities and outlooks. 

Our second daughter is nearly two-years-old and I’m starting to look for ways she thrives and feels loved. (Chapman advises that a dominant love language usually doesn’t appear until around the age of five.) Even though she’s still developing, she interacts so differently than her sister. When she wants snuggle time, it means laying on the couch next to her; when she reads, she doesn’t mind sitting near. She still loves lap-time, of course—what kid doesn’t?— but the way she asks and responds is completely different from her old sister. 

I’m starting to look more closely at these differences, wondering how I can best meet her needs. It’s easy to want to lump the two girls together—what worked for our oldest must work for our second. As any seasoned parent will tell you, that’s both silly and impractical. Because they are different people, I look for ways to parent their needs differently.

As they grow older, I hope they recognize this unique aspect of our family’s dynamic. What works for one shouldn’t work for the other. The way in which my husband and I parent will be different. We’re starting to use this language and these expectations in hopes that our daughters won’t view it as unfair parenting, but as best-practices parenting.

Right now, they don’t seem to notice the differences, but I do. When I remember this small shift in thinking, our days look so much different and our interactions are much sweeter. We work as a coherent group rather than as frustrated individuals, and that is ultimately my hope for our family—that we always remember to function as a supportive team, celebrating our own unique needs and ways of interacting.

How do you parent your kids differently? What have you learned most from those interactions?

 Annie Rim lives in Colorado where she plays with her two daughters, hikes with her husband, and reflects about life & faith on her blog. A world traveler, she has taught in the classroom, at an art museum, and now in the playroom.  You can connect with her on Twitter and Instagram.


Eggs in a Basket: About Secondary Infertility
July 5, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics No Comment

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility* as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

For every photo of a smiling family, there is a story.

You might look at our family of four and think, Picture perfect. They’re so blessed. And I wouldn’t argue with you—God has been good to us. Two healthy little girls, nearly six years apart, one favoring my hubby and the other favoring me (depending on who you ask).

But a photograph doesn’t tell you about the journey to this moment. It doesn’t tell you about the years of longing, about the negative pregnancy tests, about the envy, about the long conversations, about the prayers, or about the loss.

Our story, simply stated, is that pregnancy has never come easily.

Early in our marriage, I watched women around me become pregnant and families begin to grow, the news of each new life delivering a stinging blow to my heart. I dreamed of being called Mom. I wanted to say I was happy for others and mean it. One year went by, then two, then three. I chose ignorance over going to the doctor for a diagnosis, secretly deeply afraid I just wasn’t able to conceive and carry a child. The desire in my heart never faded, even as I busied and distracted myself with long hours at an editorial assistant job and reminded myself to savor the days of just the two of us.

Looking back, the three years of struggling were nothing but a drop in the bucket—I know this now. At the time, they felt endless. Pain in the waiting is real, whether it lasts one year or fifteen.

One cool November day, that season of my life ended and another began. The pregnancy curveballs started early and kept on coming. First, severe morning sickness followed by kidney stones, then a traumatic labor and finally an emergency c-section. God was teaching me lesson after lesson about adjusting my expectations.

Then perhaps the biggest shock, ten months after Evelyn’s birth: Upon waking from another emergency surgery—this time to remove a benign yet rapidly growing tumor—I listened, still groggy from anesthesia, as the doctor standing by my bed explained how they had removed a good portion of my reproductive organs. But don’t worry, he had said. One ovary should do the job of two.

Should.

Did he say “should”? Doesn’t he know how long it took to conceive the last baby, when I had two ovaries? What if all my eggs were literally in one basket? What if that was my “good side,” and now it’s gone?

I felt robbed. The whole thing had been so sudden. My feelings of loss were wrapped around dreams of babies that didn’t even exist, but I grieved. I felt my body had not only let me down, but it had let my husband down, too. What about his family dreams? Together we slowly released our future to God and moved on, focusing all of our attention on our little girl. Even as I clung to faith to sustain me, this wasn’t at all what I had in mind.

I needed to believe with my whole being that God’s plan for my family was better than anything I could dream up on my own.

For the next four years I hovered in a confusing place of wondering whether I was even capable of conceiving another child. If it was medically impossible, I didn’t want to know. When you start marking years off the calendar, you begin to assume the worst. Learning about secondary infertility* from an article online was the catalyst for me to let go of my dreams. It was a self-diagnosis, but it was enough. We enrolled Evelyn in preschool; I went back to work. We dipped our toes into adoption research. Life just… moved on. Then, just as we settled into a new normal, we discovered I was pregnant. After all those years of silence from the womb, there was life.

The nervousness, excitement, and complete shock gave way to grief when I miscarried several weeks later.

Sadness swallowed us whole for a while. When I came up for air, my logical side won out, and I reduced the entire horrible experience to a big, flashing sign from God that we weren’t meant to grow our family further—we had a child already, and we needed to be content. 

But God would soon remind me, once again, that He was the one writing the story, not me. He had more chapters coming, and His narrative is infinitely better than anything I could write.

Our second daughter, Daisy, turned three in April.

In this story, the chapter about the flood was followed by the part about the rainbow.

You who are in a season of wondering and waiting, I see you. You who have received a diagnosis, who are wading through the adoption process, who are undergoing procedures, who are grieving loss, asking why—you are not alone.

If you have walked through the dark days and broken through to light on the other side, whether it be through a child you carried, a child brought into your forever home, or simply peace in the uncertainty, praise God! Share your stories and yell hallelujahs for the miracles. But don’t forget those who are in the thick of it. They need you. Be a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on. Offer hope. Reach out. Squeeze a hand. Pray.

~

People love to ask why we spaced our girls so far apart. I laugh because we had nothing to do with it—and I’m grateful it wasn’t up to us. They also love to ask if we’re going to have more kids. Knowing the twists and turns of this journey so far, I’d never assume to know the answer to that question. The story of our family is in the hands of the Author.

He writes the best stories.

*Secondary infertility is the inability to become pregnant, or to carry a pregnancy to term, following the birth of one or more biological children, and can be the result of a variety of factors. A diagnosis of secondary infertility might apply if: a couple who has already given birth without the use of medical support or fertility medications is unable to get pregnant or experiences miscarriages after trying for one year if the woman is under 35, or after trying for 6 months if the woman is older than 35. Source and more info: The National Infertility Association (resolve.org)

secondary infertility, hope for moms, encouragement, infertility, grief, pregnancy loss, trying to conceive

secondary infertility, hope for moms, encouragement, infertility, grief, pregnancy loss, trying to conceive

Rebekah Crosby is a former copy editor who traded in her red pen to chase her kids around all day and share stories over at Write the Rough Draft. Wife of a woodworker and mom of two daughters, her hobbies include photography, reading too many books at a time, and jotting down ideas she hopes to write about when she has a free minute. Rebekah is co-founder of The Drafting Desk, an email newsletter for those longing for freedom over perfection, and she shares slices of life on Instagram at @writetheroughdraft.

The Kindred Mom Team would love to invite you to follow us on Facebook and subscribe to our email list where we send out updates on our community a few times a month.


Invited Into Friendship
June 30, 2017 In Faith & Encouragement Soul Care for Moms No Comment

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

I thought I was fine. I had friends. I was married. We had two little kids. I felt settled living where I was, but incredibly lonesome as well. Our family had been at Bible College in Sydney, Australia for two years already and going into our third year, I was quietly confident that I would get through this year as I had done the last couple of years—gritting my teeth, pushing through, depending on friends a little—but mostly just enduring. My dearest friend had just left the college, leaving a huge void in my life, and as I mourned the loss of our close friendship, I knew the year was sure to be a different one.

At the start of a new school year, I was curious to meet the new families who would be joining us at the school. I recognized the nervousness on their faces. I was nervous too. Nervous that I might not make any new friends from this new crop of people.

On the day of the picnic to welcome incoming families, I scoped the scene. There were some people already chatting with new friends. Kids were running in every direction on the play equipment, and I thought my baby might like the swings. A beautiful mum was pushing her youngest girl on the swing as well. I introduced myself, clicking the little chain across the swing to secure my son. She smiled wide, and her lovely brown eyes sparkled as she told me the names of her kids, pointing out her older daughter who was running around the playground. I don’t remember the details of the conversation, but I do remember feeling like I didn’t want it to end. A little while later, we were pulled by our tired children and weary husbands back to our separate lives, and I remember thinking, ‘This will not be the last time I see her.’

Our firstborns were close in age, as were our second-borns—hers both a little bit older than mine. They seemed like great playdate material. We got together a few times, and it was fun. We talked and drank tea from lovely cups. A friendship was beginning to blossom, and it was beautiful.

This dear lady went on to bravely invite a few of the ladies that she had connected with and drew us into her life in a deep way. She told us how she wanted to intentionally create the community she was longing for herself. She wanted to encourage us to open up and share the raw messy reality of our lives with each other. Having been at a pretty tough place in my motherhood journey— sleepless and breastfeeding, no family nearby and two little people who needed me almost more than I could handle—it felt like this this precious woman was holding out a life preserver to me.

I accepted the invitation wholeheartedly, all the while wondering why I had never done this before. She demonstrated for me how our hearts—that soft emotional bit of us—breathe better amongst friends. Changes start to happen slowly that open us to see the beauty and joy in our world, even on the hard days. We can intentionally make space for that to happen.

There was something in the way that she gave me permission to live my life, with my guard down, that seemed to unlock something deep in me. It was almost as though I’d been marching to the beat of someone else’s drum for a long time. Sitting quietly with this group of ladies, I started to hear my own beat once more. In this new community, I found the freedom to be more fully me again.

Shannon Anderson lives with her husband, who is the love of her life, and their two kids, in Sydney Australia. They are currently at Bible College while they are preparing for full time cross-cultural ministry in a remote Aboriginal Community. But, in the meantime Shannon is hitting up as many amazing Sydney coffee shops as possible and is kid wrangling full time and writing in the margins of life with a young family. You can catch her on Instagram occasionally.


A Child’s Life is Worth the Inconvenience
June 28, 2017 In Childhood Health & Nutrition No Comment

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

The first time I went grocery shopping after my youngest son was diagnosed with food allergies, I spent three hours at the store and cried my way through the aisles. I read label after label, scanning for tree nuts, peanuts, and soy, becoming more discouraged as I went.

What is he going to eat?
How am I going to keep him safe?
Is it always going to be this hard?

In time, I realized I was going to have to do more cooking at home, including baked goods, snacks, and bread items. If it came from my kitchen, I could guarantee that he would eat safely and there would be no allergic reactions.

What I couldn’t control was what happened outside my front door. Every time he left home I feared what could happen. Would he make good choices at restaurants? Would he ask the right questions so the chefs understood what he could and could not eat?

The biggest challenge we faced was at his school. Our district has a combined middle/high school and in spite of “rules” against eating in the classroom, most teachers allow it. Lunch periods are short, some kids don’t bring a lunch, and the teachers don’t want the kids to go hungry. I get it, I really do. I want to feel sympathetic to all those situations and be the understanding parent, except I can’t.

Because I’ve had to race to the Emergency Room, both frantic with worry for my child and trying to remain hopeful in the medical doctors.

Will this reaction be worse than the last one?
Will the doctors be able to stop the reaction from progressing too far?
Everything will be okay…right?
Please, don’t let this be the reaction that takes his life.

At my son’s school, I heard about how students would take food he was allergic to and put it right up into his face. My son reported how classmates would eat items with peanuts and/or peanut butter, and then pass out folders – now possibly contaminated with nut oils – he had to hold during chorus class. He grumbled on about how they bullied him over his food allergies and made him feel like an outcast. In spite of his initial protests not to get involved, I became “that mom.” My mother bear instincts kicked in and I was consumed with keeping my child safe. I felt the school was failing him, and other less vocal students like him. If they weren’t going to protect him of their own accord, I was going to make them. I wrote emails and sent letters to the school, demanding that they keep peanut products–the most severe of my child’s allergies–out of the classrooms he spent his time in. I listed all the ways they were endangering my child, and how I was ready to pursue the issue all the way to the school board if I had to. It resulted in backlash from the school, and increased taunting from the kids.

Several of the teachers in the Fine and Performing Arts department posted a sign on the music room door in an attempt to keep the room nut-free. A parent of one of the band students complained to me that her child (and other students), sometimes ate their lunch in the hallway to comply with the nut-free rule, but the fact that they could no longer eat in the classroom caused them to miss out on instruction time. She made comments about how everything was “fine” the way it was before, and implied that other students shouldn’t be suffering from this inconvenience just because MY CHILD ( her emphasis added) had an allergy. She felt it was unfair.

It’s not fair, I agree. It’s not fair that my son can die because of the food he eats, or the food other people eat, because just breathing in peanut dust or having peanut oil near him can cause a severe reaction. It’s not fair that for the rest of his life he has to be diligent about where he goes, what he does, and how he interacts with people just to stay alive.

I wanted to vocalize all of these things to that mother, to make her understand how awful I felt about the whole situation. I wanted to tell her that I understood her frustrations and that I agreed with her. I wanted to tell her how upset I was with the students who were putting my son in potentially life-endangering positions, with the school for not doing more to keep him safe, and with myself for having to disrupt the learning of her child and others. But I couldn’t. Anger and fear were fighting a raging battle within my heart, and with my son’s life at stake, I couldn’t find the words.

Before I was a mother of a child with food allergies, I was not aware of how the choices I made each day when sending a packed lunch or snacks to school with my children could potentially harm another child. As Maya Angelou said, “When you know better, you do better.” The more I learned about food allergies, the more I was able to help my son make better choices for himself, and to help educate his peers about the choices they made when they would be spending time with him and near him. As a young adult, he is now able to advocate for himself, and his friends do not hesitate to ask him questions about what they are planning to eat and if it safe for him to be near, or if a food they ate earlier in the day will cause him to have a reaction.

Through visits with the allergy doctor, discussions with other moms of children with food allergies, and by reading resources from organizations such as Food Allergy Research and Education (FARE) I am able to make better choices when bringing a food item to an event. I make sure it is free of the top 8 allergens, so that it can be enjoyed by a majority of people, as well as including a list of ingredients. I also make a note that lets others know my food is prepared in a home free of several of the common allergens, and list those as well. Being the mom of a child with food allergies has made me more aware of how difficult it is for people who have limited diets to safely eat at social events. In addition to advocating for more awareness of food allergies, I try to set an example for others in how to meet the needs of those with special diets.

When my son was still in high school, it eased my mind when other parents contacted me ahead of time about food they would be serving at functions and asked questions about ingredients they weren’t sure about. I love when family members check in with me before social events about what kinds of food they can serve that my son can safely eat. These simple gestures make a person with food allergies feel loved and included, and help build the community of allies.

Beth Richardson is a writer of creative nonfiction with too many hobbies, who is currently distracted from her work by pursuing a college degree. With her husband and two young adult sons, she lives in southwest New Hampshire where she blogs about organized living, self care, and bullet journaling at justplainbeth.com, and on Instagram.  


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